Sons
by HidingBehindASmile
Summary: At Christmas, Molly Weasley welcomes one of her sons home and thinks of another.


**A/N - I haven't written in an age, so I'm sorry if I'm a little (okay, a lot) on the rusty side.**

**Disclaimer - I own nothing. Well, I own some things, just not Harry Potter.**

* * *

Molly Weasley bustled around the kitchen of The Burrow watching over the knives neatly dicing vegetables, slipping potatoes into pans and checking on the enormous turkey sizzling in the oven. As she heard the familiar crack outside the house, she hurried to the door. Pulling it open, her mouth cracked into a smile as she saw Harry standing in the yard, brushing sprinklings of snow off his shoulder.

"Harry! Come in, come in, dear. Get yourself out of that cold," Molly clucked as Harry headed towards the open door, a beam on his face. "No, no, don't worry dear, I'll sort it," she smiled, waving away the drawn wand Harry had brought out to clean the mud and snow he had managed to trample in. "How was Teddy?"

"Growing so fast you'd never believe it," Harry laughed. "He's even looking festive; the kid turned his hair red and green to suit the occasion."

"Clever boy," Molly cooed happily.

"I have pictures somewhere," Harry said, searching through his jacket pockets.

"Don't worry, dear, you can show them to me later. I'm sure you want to go and see the others first," Molly gestured at a door. "They're in the living room. Go on!"

"Are you sure you don't want any-"

"Don't you worry about me, now," Molly interrupted strictly. Seeing Harry's hesitation, she gave him a squeeze on the arm. "I'll be quite alright in here."

"Thanks, Mrs Weasley," Harry nodded, heading towards the living room door. Suddenly, he turned around and Molly found herself being enveloped in a hug. "I forgot to say, Merry Christmas!"

Following Harry's departure towards the laughs and rabble of the living room, Molly continued to potter around the kitchen, happy tears suddenly filling her eyes.

That boy really was a son to her, she thought.

* * *

Four and a half hours later, Molly Weasley apparated away from The Burrow. The rest of the family, as well as the other assorted guests they always seemed to accumulate, were either sleeping or making use of their presents. Christmas dinner had been eaten, all plates scraped clean, and the washing up had finally been completed.

Molly let out a small sigh of relief; much as she enjoyed the company and festivities of Christmas, it was nonetheless a little stressful to pull together. Molly anxiously patted the small bag she had brought with her, checking again that she had it, before finally moving away from the spot to which she had apparated.

Snow was still falling, although much more lightly now, and Molly crunched through the snow towards a small wooden gate. She pushed it open and walked through, closing it gently behind her so as not to make any noise.

The graves seemed endless; the curved tops seemed to stretch in every direction. Yet Molly knew exactly where to go. Weaving slowly but surely through the graveyard, she made her way to her target, clutching the bag in her arms ever tighter.

The place was deserted, or so she thought. Passing a familiar grave, she saw the hunched figure of a man she had seen many times before.

"Amos," she nodded kindly. He nodded back, his eyes clearly rimmed red.

Molly paused, briefly contemplating staying with the man, but she realised he was not who he was here to visit, nor was he the reason for her journey.

She carried on walking for a few minutes before finally reaching her desired destination. She knelt on the ground in front of the familiar headstone, abandoning all ideas of keeping her clothes clean and dry. She traced the words engraved on the stone for a while before she finally began to speak.

"Merry Christmas," she said lightly, her cracking voice betraying the emotion beneath it. "Mischievous as you were, we miss you, you know. What I wouldn't give to shout at you to stop the explosions from upstairs again," she whispered, a solitary tear sliding down her face. She paused, as though she expected some response, before continuing.

"I thought maybe George would-" Molly's throat suddenly seemed unable to expel breath, let alone force words out. George, unsurprisingly, had suffered the most after Fred's death. His face remained pale and drawn with huge bags under his eyes whenever she saw him. Molly knew Ron had moved into the flat to try and help with the shop, but whether he had made any difference was questionable. Certainly, there was no physical change.

Pushing the thoughts of George out of her head and clearing her throat loudly, she carried on. "I just thought you might be getting cold down there," she said faintly, finally pulling out the contents of the bag.

She cradled the Weasley jumper in her hands for a moment, the soft red wool bringing comfort and warmth to her cold, shaking fingers. Tears now poured down her face uncontrollably.

"Don't worry about me, it's just your silly old mother getting worked up," she choked out, the words only bringing comfort to herself. "But just remember, you'll always be my son. My brave, brave, little boy."


End file.
